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I stare daggers at him, but then I look away and nod.
I mean, what choice do I have?
“Okay.” John releases a long breath. “I’m sorry.”
I check his face again. He’s staring at the floor, probably as aggravated by the situation as I am. I mean, he didn’t want to get into my vajayjay sixteen years ago. Why would he want to now?
“And you’re sure this won’t happen again?”
“Yes, I’ll sign the forms right away and put them in your file.”
“Okay.” I nod again.
“I can ask the nurse back in if that would make you feel more comfortable?”
And add a witness to my mortification? “No, thank you.”
The room turns into grand awkward central, neither of us moving from our positions.
John budges first. “I’ll just…” He swallows and points to the gyno chair. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I’ll never be ready. Never, ever, ever, ever.
John turns again toward the door to give me some privacy and I go to the chair. I sit, keeping the coat on and hugging it to my chest. I slip my underwear off and settle on the edge of the seat. Scooting closer to the stirrups at the end, I lay both my bare feet inside them and try to open my knees as before. I can’t, the coat blocks them.
I have to unzip the coat from the bottom to spread my legs properly, but I don’t want to remove it.
“Can I keep the coat on?” I ask.
John turns and crosses the room at a brisk pace, taking his place next to the chair.
“You can keep it on as long as you pull it up for me, above your navel, please.”
I do as I’m told.
“Okay, let’s begin.”
5
MARISSA
John is doing his best to stare at the wall—not at my face, and most definitely not at my doo-dah. “Can you tell me of any symptoms you’re having?”
I shrug. “None so far.”
“Any pain, mood swings, headaches? Anything unusual?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. No symptoms.”
“Okay. Let’s do the physical exam. Please, spread your legs a little further.”
I look at him and he’s looking at me. I know I have to do this and I want it to be done as fast as possible, but my instinct is to do just the opposite: to clench my thighs and put my adductors to good work.
“Take your time,” John says, putting on blue surgical gloves.
I hate the kindness in his voice and the understanding in his eyes. I don’t want that from him. And I hate that the only thing I can think about now is that I didn’t check his hand for a wedding ring before he put on the gloves. I should not care if he’s married.
I open my legs and hold the coat tight against my chest while tilting my head to the side, away from him, and closing my eyes.
